


Burn Itself Out

by seriousfic



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-03-06 21:24:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3149009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seriousfic/pseuds/seriousfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Root and Shaw mourn in their own ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burn Itself Out

They went back to the subway station first thing, everyone moving like machines, just one objective to the next. Shaw sewed Reese up, then refilled her pockets with ammo. Then went to her subway car, the sole bit of privacy she had with Samaritan hemming her in.

 

She didn’t feel anything. She didn’t. She just closed her eyes sometimes and saw him, Fusco dashing from the elevator for the button. He hadn’t been a shooter like her. Couldn’t fire back. Just took bullet after bullet until he got there. Hit the button. Fell over. She didn’t feel anything, but she saw it again and again.

 

It made too much sense for Shaw not to hate it. He wasn’t a genius like Root or Finch. Wasn’t a pro like her and Reese. But he was the kind of man who only needed a prompt, for Root to go and say “Lionel” on the Machine’s orders, and he went. He hadn’t even known what he was fighting for. Just that someone was responsible for everything that was going wrong and this would save his friends from them.

 

To Shaw, a person like that was more valuable than someone who knew how to best fire a gun. Especially someone with a kid. She knew what happened when you grew up without parents.

 

***

 

Root came into the car, unamused to find that her housewarming gifts had been put to good use. A cot, blinds to pull down over the windows… potted plants. It all seemed a bit ridiculous to her now. Pasting over the holes in Shaw’s life—not being able to show her face in public ninety percent of the time. What was a lava lamp supposed to do about that?

 

She finally knew why Shaw got so angry with her. She was at least smart enough to know how bad it’d sound to say the right thing had happened, that losing Fusco was the sacrifice they could afford to make. He was the most expendable.

 

Root didn’t believe that, not anymore. The thought just sort of hung in her mind, a parenthetical. Bad code.

 

She stood there in the doorway, looking back at the platform where Finch and Reese were in hushed conversation. What to do about Leo—humanitarian stuff like that. And Shaw hadn’t told her to fuck off, thrown anything at her. Root stepped inside. Slid the door shut behind her.

 

Shaw sat on the cot. She’d only been there for the last of it, but she looked like she’d been through the same meat grinder as the rest of them. Root envied John then. At least, walking wounded, there’d been nothing he could’ve done. The only one of them with a clear conscience. If there was a God besides Her, guy had a sense of humor fit for the Catskills.

 

“Is She listening?” Shaw asked. Root wished there was annoyance in her voice. Wished there was anything in her voice.

 

“She’s always listening.”

 

“Then have her tell me what the odds are on us. Ending up like Fusco.”

 

Root went to her. She was still upright, still breathing, but drawn into herself—that was the Sameen Shaw fetal position. She could come out of it firing, but that was about the only way she could come out of it. “Sameen, we’re going to beat this thing. We did it today, we stopped the stock market crash—“

 

“I wasn’t talking to you.” Shaw looked at her and Root knew the difference. “What are the odds we end up in a retirement home? Make Her tell me.”

 

Root knew the number by heart. It hadn’t changed in a while. “Six percent.”

 

Shaw nodded. “So it doesn’t matter. We’re dead no matter what. Might as well play in traffic.”

 

“Even a slim hope—“

 

“Don’t be Finch. You suck at it.” Shaw stood, moving so Root felt the weariness in her bones. “It should’ve been me.”

 

“Sameen—“

 

“I could’ve taken them. Lay down suppressing fire while hitting a button? Easy. _Easy._ I could do that in my sleep. It wasn’t his _job_ to do stuff like that, he never should’ve _been_ there—“

 

“ _Sameen_ —“

 

“He has a goddamn kid, Groves.” Eye contact with Shaw was blistering. Root held it until Shaw blinked away. “Had.”

 

“He’ll be taken care of. She thinks he’s going to end up being a cop, too. A good one.”

 

“In Samaritanland? What does that even look like—dropping napalm on protestors? _It should’ve been me._ Maybe Fusco couldn’t treat a knife wound with a bottle of jack, but he gave a shit. Out of all of you, I’m the only one that doesn’t. I’m expendable.”

 

The jagged way Shaw had of breathing, it made Root think of sobbing. How easy it would be if Shaw would just do _that,_ let Root comfort her, hold her, wipe away her tears. You didn’t have to argue with tears.

 

“I’m not glad it’s him,” Root said. “But I’m glad it wasn’t you. Maybe you don’t have a kid, but you have me. And if you weren’t around…”

 

There was an ice that formed after someone died. Brittle, and all the colder for it. It could be broken if you wanted, but no one ever _wanted to._ It’d be too callous, everyone wanted to let it thaw on its own. But it didn’t work like that, like seasons. If you chose, it could get deeper and deeper into the winter. If you chose, it could melt away.

 

Root gave Shaw the only smile she could, a fracture of her lips, the happiness in it small and chilly, but there. Happy that it wasn’t more of them. Happy that it wasn’t _her._ “I couldn’t do it without you. It wouldn’t be any fun.”

 

Shaw kissed her. Ripped into that smile, tore into it and dug into it and had the warmth of it on her tongue, in her lips. Fingers clawing for it under Root’s clothes, upon her skin. Root’s hands on her, flecking little sparks of it into her body. Then Shaw was picking her up, turning her around, not knowing if the cot was big enough for two, wanting to find out. She thrust Root down on it, straddled her—“Who gives a shit, huh? Six percent chance I live to regret this…”—her kisses boring down on Root, grip iron on her, ripping her pants down, her shirt up, palming her breasts, her ass, her face. She couldn’t stop _kissing_ Root, didn’t want to eat her out, didn’t want to be eaten out, just wanted to keep kissing her. It felt like something.

 

“Stop.”

 

Tiny word. Tiny, tiny word, Shaw almost thought it was the Machine in Root’s ear. Maybe that God had a thing against premarital sex too. But it was Root, speaking with her kiss-bruised lips, her breathless lungs, and Shaw hung over her, robbed of the one thing she’d always had: her certainty.

 

“Stop… why? Don’t tell me you’ve planted a dildo around her somewhere.”

 

“Not where Bear could find it.” Root tried for a wry grin, but the ice wasn’t _that_ thin. Her lips collapsed into a thin line. “I don’t want you to have sex with me because you think it doesn’t matter. It matters to me.”

 

“It matters to me too. I don’t want this not happening. I could’ve lived not knowing whether we actually… _work…_ but I don’t want to die not knowing.”

 

Root had a way of crying with her smile. She leaned up and kissed Shaw’s chin. “When you make love to me—if I’m ever that unfathomably lucky—I want it to be because _you want to._ No other reason. Nothing else in your mind. But just that you want me as much as I want you.”

 

Shaw blinked, as if someone had slurred her and she was trying to determine who to kill. “Is this you being a gentlemen?”

 

“This is me caring about you. What you want and what you don’t want. I think you want— _not to have this._ But you don’t want me. Not really.”

 

Shaw looked down. She was still palming Root’s breast. It felt nicely sized in her hand. A little pump in her fingers and Root’s eyes were nudged toward the back of her head.

 

“Okay,” Root said, “maybe you want me a little.”

 

Shaw rolled off her. Cot was big enough for two. Just barely. “We were going to die.”

 

“I know.”

 

“We were going to die and you were thinking of me.”

 

“I was.”

 

“You weren’t trying to get a rise out of me—weren’t even trying to drop me into bed. You really—have some goddamn _thing_ for me.”

 

“I hate to say I told you so, Shaw—“

 

Shaw shut her eyes. “Of course. The most irritating thing you could do. I want a fuckbuddy, suddenly I realize you’re in the market for a wife.”

 

“I’m not huge on the institution of marriage. We could be life partners.”

 

Shaw closed her eyes harder. “Christ… you actually care whether I live or die.”

 

“We all do.” Root smiled a little. Most irritating of all, it made Shaw want to kiss her again and she wasn’t even _looking,_ she could just picture that little half-smirk… “But I care the most.”

 

Shaw groaned. “I was wrong. The most irritating thing you could do is actually make me feel a little better.”

 

Root kissed her on the cheek. Warmth. It burrowed right into Shaw’s skin. “When you’re ready—when you’re really ready—I will be right there waiting. You’re worth waiting for; I resigned myself to how mule headed you are a long time ago.”

 

Shaw opened her eyes just to roll them. “And you, keep… hitting on me.”

 

Root actually _hummed_ in approval. “I knew you liked it.”

 

“What are you talking about? It’s just that it’s my turn to shoot you down.”

 

Root Eskimo’d her nose next to Shaw’s eye. Christ. What had she gotten herself into? “I’m going to check on the boys. Knowing John, he’s got some roaring rampage of revenge in the offing. I’d like to be a big part of that.”

 

Shaw nodded. Licked her lips. “One more, though? Before you go?” A lazy smile flitted across her face. “Before we _really_ irritate each other?”

 

Root took her time brushing a hair from Shaw’s face first. She wanted to savor this. It might be a long time before it came again.

 

But now she knew it would be worth it.


End file.
